


Pulvis et Umbra

by mildred_of_midgard



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, Historical RPF
Genre: Ambiguous Ghost or Dream, M/M, Near Death Experiences
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-10-25 11:17:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20723342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mildred_of_midgard/pseuds/mildred_of_midgard
Summary: Katte's been dead for over a decade, but when Friedrich himself stands on the brink of death, his old love comes to offer him a choice."A long, glorious life that will demand of you everything you have to give, or a short, soon forgotten one, and a long rest, beginning now. With me." Katte held up a flute. "Would you like to hear me play?"





	Pulvis et Umbra

**Author's Note:**

> A thousand thanks to raspberryhunter for beta reading and for bringing joy to my heart in all ways in this fandom.

For the first time since Francesco Algarotti's return to Potsdam, the sun was showing its face to Sanssouci. Algarotti rejoiced to see it, and the King pounced on the opportunity to show his newest chamberlain around the grounds of his recently commissioned palace. He kept his arm around Algarotti's shoulders, talking up a storm as they went.

"You've no idea how glad I am to see you again, _Count_ Algarotti." Friedrich's voice caressed the title, but there was an unexpected edge to the word. "I've wanted to show you everything. I haven't been idle now that the war is over, you'll see."

Days of downpour had made Algarotti start to miss Italy already, but today all his prospects looked brighter. Even in a chill wind, the sun was shining, he had an appointment as royal consultant on artistic and architectural matters, and the King was in a good humor.

As they toured the grounds, the King waxed enthusiastic about his accomplishments and his even grander plans for what was to come. More art for the palace, of course, and a folly or three, but also opera houses in Berlin, the expansion of the porcelain industry within Prussia, everything he could think of.

"I've had such need of you, my swan. You won't be bored, I can promise you that."

His vision unfolded before Algarotti so vividly it seemed to overlay the mere reality that his eyes beheld. Seeing gaps and opportunities, Algarotti offered up a few suggestions, to which Friedrich nodded emphatically. "Yes, you understand! Two minds, working in harmony; there's no limit to what we can accomplish. I'm not so delusional as to think we can make it Paris overnight, but even Paris began as the 'city of mud.'"

"As did Rome, Sire. It took Augustus to make it a city of marble."

The King looked quickly at Algarotti, but it wasn't flattery. His enthusiasm was simply that infectious. Algarotti was beginning to wonder why he hadn't come back to Prussia sooner. Oh, he'd remember later, he knew that. But just now, he was falling head over heels all over again.

It was always like this when they met. Ideas racing back and forth, shared passions igniting, and sparks flying, until the fire was well and truly ablaze. Algarotti was warming himself in the glow, letting himself dwell on the beauty of the future, when the tour reached its end back at the palace, on the top of the terraced hill.

"Look." The King showed off the vault he had had prepared for himself there. Calmly, as though he were talking about the vineyard, he outlined surprisingly detailed plans for his burial.

Concerned, Algarotti turned toward him. "Is your health so bad, my friend?" The King's body had always afflicted him with an assortment of maladies, but to have a tomb at the forefront of his mind so early in his thirties?

Friedrich made a resigned face. "I don’t expect to see another decade, but regardless, building a tomb isn't the morbid enterprise you seem to think it is. Nothing could be more reasonable than to be prepared for what can strike at any moment. Furthermore," he lectured, one finger raised, "the principle of _memento mori_ enhances the appreciation of life. It discourages us from wasting a single moment. If I live another fifty years, it will do me--and my country--good to have this reminder always in front of me."

Not so much unconvinced by the philosophy as fiercely hoping for another fifty years together, Algarotti looked around for something more positive to admire. Only steps from the vault, his eye caught a bronze statue of a naked young man, arms held aloft. Algarotti recognized it just from the written description he'd received. This was one acquisition Friedrich had been thrilled to make. "That's your oldest piece, is it not? Authentic Greek?"

"Yes, indeed. My _Antinous_." Friedrich began guiding Algarotti closer to enjoy it at close range. "It passed through your family's hands once, you know."

"I do." Mindful of his new appointment, Algarotti couldn't resist the urge to show off. "I have to admit we were being a little free with our associations in calling it an Antinous; if it's as old as we think it is--and of course it is," he hastened to add, to the king who would be less than gratified to think he'd had a later copy palmed off on him for what he'd paid, "it predates Hadrian's reign by some centuries. Not that it doesn't fit with the Antinous type of beautiful youths, of course."

Abruptly, Friedrich's arm fell to his side and his smile from his face. "If I want your opinion, I'll ask for it."

Algarotti blinked several times rapidly in confusion. Of course, he could keep the old name if he liked, but the King prided himself on being a knowledgeable collector, not merely a prolific one, and Algarotti had been expecting an approving nod at his erudition. If nothing else, the King was paying Algarotti to know what he was talking about.

Then he decided it didn't matter where he'd gone wrong. Antinous it was, and Antinous it would always be. "It's certainly worthy of a great emperor and his beloved."

That much he could say with sincerity. It truly was an impressive work of art.

"Indeed. I'm especially pleased at the way he's immortalized in his final moment, poised to dive into the Nile." His good mood restored, Friedrich spun Algarotti around. "See? I've placed it in the line of sight from my library. I can look over it while I work, and it can look over me when my labors are at an end."

* * *

Five am. Friedrich was leafing through papers by candlelight and annotating the margins with his decisions. Opposite him, his chamberlain and factotum Fredersdorf was feeding him the reports he had selected for the King's attention.

Every few minutes, Friedrich stopped to shake out his hand, in increasing annoyance. The pain gripping his right arm had been growing steadily worse the last few days, and now a pricking sensation was tormenting his fingers. What scared him more than anything was the way his flute practice this morning had suffered as a result.

Scowling, he shook his hand violently enough to spatter tiny drops of ink on the desk.

Fredersdorf's eyes flickered, but he knew better than to say anything while they were working. Friedrich fought through pain the way he fought through everything: complaining often enough that no one could miss the battle, but refusing to yield until he physically couldn't work any more. Then he'd begin another round of arguing with doctors and insisting they do what he said, berating them as useless because they couldn't get faster results, until at last whatever it was subsided enough that he was back on his feet.

"Here's the report on the ongoing fortification in Silesia, Sire." Friedrich accepted the sheaf from Fredersdorf while handing back the completed decisions on educational reforms. "As you can see..."

But by seven Friedrich could no longer feel his hand nor move his arm of his own volition. The royal physicians were summoned hastily.

* * *

Friedrich's body was a heavy, useless thing. All around him, voices buzzed, but his mind couldn't hold onto any words.

Fighting in vain, he felt himself sinking deeper into the darkness. The voices faded into inaudibility, and the pain receded. Suddenly, all at once, he was standing up, leaving behind the shackles of flesh.

He drifted toward his bedroom window. When he looked out, there was a river, and Katte was standing on the opposite bank. He didn't know where he was at first, and then he understood. It was the Oder, and Katte was about to be executed.

Friedrich tried to throw out his right hand, meaning to blow a kiss, but his hand wouldn't obey him. He couldn't look down to see what was wrong with it, because he didn't dare take his eyes off Katte for an instant.

Katte's hands were giving him no such problems. He raised both and waved easily to Friedrich. Despite the distance between them, Friedrich could see and hear him as clearly as if they were standing face to face.

"Are you coming, my prince? I'm sorry, my king."

His confusion jogged Friedrich's memory. "You're dead."

"Well, yes." Katte seemed unbothered by this. Without looking away from Friedrich, he stroked the head of a dog standing beside him. "You can be too, if you like."

Katte had always been someone Friedrich could talk philosophy with. He knew Katte wouldn't be offended when he told him, "You're not real. I'm only dreaming of you because I set up a commemoration to your sacrifice. It doesn't mean I'm going to die."

"Do you want me to go, then? If you don't believe in shades or premonitions?"

Friedrich stared, still unable to tear his eyes from that beloved face. The one he hadn't seen in almost twenty years, the one he would never again see outside of his own mind.

"No." His voice was thick. "No, stay. Have you seen your memorial?"

"You meant that for me?" Lips curving in a warm smile, Katte moved to take a step closer to Friedrich, but the dog growled, and he stopped. Still, the look in his eyes was so tender Friedrich knew that, if not for the dark river currents roaring between them, he would have been only a moment away from being kissed. "Antinous, giving the years of his life to an ailing Hadrian?"

"Yes. Can I give them back?"

* * *

All day, Algarotti had been fighting a battle of wills with himself. The King needed rest and quiet, so he'd forced himself to rely on reports from the sickroom, instead of barging in along with the stream of physicians and servants. Fredersdorf hadn't left his master's side since the apoplexy struck, and there was no one Algarotti trusted more to care for him.

But every report said that the King had only deteriorated further, until finally Algarotti could stay away no longer.

Admitted without question by the page standing guard on the royal bedroom, Algarotti gave silent thanks to the King for having the foresight to make his official title that of chamberlain. Heart clenching, he hoped the vault just across from the window hadn't been similarly foresighted.

The room was stifling hot, but with the wind rattling the windows, there was no choice but to keep it that way. Standing quietly in a corner, Algarotti looked around to get his bearings.

A servant was carrying away another basin of blood that the doctors had drained from the patient's veins, yet the King was still slumped back in his chair, head lolling and eyes closed. Another servant approached clutching a vessel of water wrapped in a thick towel. Though clouds of steam billowed up, the King didn't show the slightest reaction when they immersed his unfeeling hand in the scalding water.

Around him, the physicians conferred in hushed voices.

Spotting a grim Fredersdorf, Algarotti started to approach, to ask for an update.

He was halfway across the room when a bark at his feet shocked him. It was Biche, curled up on a pillow and raising her head ominously. Algarotti stared in disbelief. Her devotion was given only to her master, but she knew his chamberlains and had never warned off Algarotti before.

Perceptive and intelligent lady that she was, Algarotti told himself, she must have picked up on the dark mood in the room and sensed that something was wrong.

He bent over to comfort her with a pat, but when his eyes adjusted to her dark form on the dimly lit floor, he saw she was looking not at him, but at the window. A bird, then, or a groom passing outside that only she could hear.

One of the physicians gestured to a page, signaling that he should remove the dog from the room. Without saying a word, Fredersdorf stepped in front of the page and shook his head, once.

"He needs quiet-"

"His Royal Majesty said she stays."

The physician would have overruled a now semiconscious royal patient for his own good, but he couldn't overrule Fredersdorf in this room. Even Count Algarotti knew to defer to this man, commoner though he was (and remarkably uninterested in becoming anything else).

* * *

"Can I give them back?"

"You know the answer to that, Fritz. 'Nec Lethaea valet Theseus abrumpere caro vincula Pirithoo,'" Katte recited.

Friedrich's heart leapt so painfully in his chest he thought it might never start beating again. Fluent in Latin he might not be, but he knew every word of his favorite poems. If even Theseus wasn't strong enough to free his beloved Pirithous from the chains of Hades, what chance did Friedrich and Katte have?

"'Easy is the descent to the Underworld,'" a reluctant Friedrich quoted in turn. Only in a moment of weakness had he allowed himself to hope otherwise.

"It wasn't hard," Katte assured him. "I don't want you to think it was hard. It's the way up that's beyond my strength. You can still turn back from here, though your way lies through pain, fire, and toil."

While Friedrich hesitated, Katte waited, patient and steadfast as ever he was when standing guard over his friend in life. His hand rested lightly on the head of the dog that accompanied him.

"They can't execute you again?" He had to know. "You're safe now?"

"Oh, my prince. My Theseus." Friedrich could feel the ache of love in Katte's breast from here. "Yes. This isn't Küstrin. I'm not haunting you."

Friedrich looked around, at the wide marsh, the black river, the thick wall under his hands. "You're sure? It looks like Küstrin to me."

"It isn't Küstrin," Katte promised, and when he used that voice, Friedrich never had any choice but to believe him. "We're both safe."

* * *

"Is His Royal Majesty aware of his surroundings?" Algarotti asked Fredersdorf.

"Sometimes. He doesn't like what milk of poppy does to his mind, but he was in too much pain to speak. We gave him just enough to take the edge off, less than we would have given anyone else. He can reproach me when he wakes up."

_He's a philosophe_, Algarotti thought, _he lives and dies by the working of his mind,_ but he didn't argue. Fredersdorf was right. If Friedrich would just wake up, he was welcome to chew them all out as long and as creatively as he liked.

The most senior physician stopped to address Fredersdorf. "His humors are still out of balance, but I don't dare bleed him further tonight."

"Then leave him the strength to restore his own balance. He's done it on sheer will before this."

"He's not paying us to be idle. I'll blister him again in the morning if there's no change tonight, but there's one more thing I can try first. I'll need the fire built up as hot as it can get, and a shovel."

While they were arguing, the King's eyes opened. They moved around the room, until they focused on Fredersdorf. Everyone started speaking at once, but they fell silent as King and chamberlain's eyes remained locked.

Friedrich's mouth moved soundlessly. Algarotti strained to make out what he was saying, but it didn't seem to be a word.

Fredersdorf nodded in understanding, though. The King's eyes fell shut, and Fredersdorf beckoned a page.

* * *

"Then why are you here, _mon cher_? We buried you decently. You're in the Katte family crypt."

"True. Then I must not have come like Patroclus to Achilles, seeking burial." Katte thought about it for a minute. "Maybe I've come to offer you Achilles' choice."

"Long, obscure life or early death and eternal fame?"

"Not quite. In your case, a long, glorious life that will demand everything of you, or a short, soon forgotten one-"

"Soon forgotten?" Friedrich interrupted. "It's too late for that. They're already calling me 'the Great'."

Katte smiled indulgently. "And do you think your successor can hold your conquests long enough for that to be remembered? Or is conquest all you want to be remembered for?"

Friedrich looked around. The river was still there, but it was running now through the grounds of Sanssouci, between his palace and his grave. The engineers were still trying to figure out the fountain at the bottom of the hill, there were empty spots where there were meant to be statues, and the largest paintings he'd acquired were awaiting a gallery that could hold them. And that was just the beginning.

"A long, glorious life," Katte repeated, "that will demand of you everything you have to give, or a short, soon forgotten one, and a long rest, beginning now. With me." Katte held up a flute. "Would you like to hear me play? I've set 'Diffugere nives' to music."

* * *

Somewhere behind the thunderclouds, the moon was rising. Algarotti knew this even though the curtains were pulled tightly shut to guard against the tiniest crack through which the wind might flow, because he was glossing an astronomical text. The King had asked for the gloss before he fell ill, and Algarotti was working on it as an act of faith, a prayer if you will, that it would still be needed.

The only other human in the room, besides the sleeping king, was Fredersdorf, pouring out melody after melody from his flute. The King seemed to be resting easier, anyway.

So that was what he was asking for earlier. Algarotti remembered Friedrich, once, talking about Küstrin and the hours Fredersdorf had spent playing for him. He'd saved his sanity, Friedrich said. Kept him from dying of boredom. Of loneliness, Algarotti had heard beneath the spoken words.

Let it be enough again. Fredersdorf on the flute, and Biche at his feet.

There wasn't really anything for Algarotti to do, and no reason to be preparing his gloss in this room, but he wanted to do it here anyway. If Friedrich died, Algarotti would miss their long conversations. He wasn't always easy to live with, but he was always worth coming back for more.

The music paused while Fredersdorf took a sip of water. Algarotti knew without asking that he'd play all night if it meant his master slept more quietly.

"How long..." Algarotti asked into the silence, "how long before we have to notify Prince Wilhelm, if the King doesn't wake?" The thought of that mind lingering indefinitely in an apoplectic state was unbearable, but he wasn't only a private man. There was a country to think of.

"Three days," Fredersdorf answered at once. "Three days, and then I will send a messenger."

"And the Margravine Wilhelmine?"

For the first time, Fredersdorf's resolute face looked openly unhappy. "If there is anything to inform her of, the Prince can see to it." Then something occurred to him. "Though, you, sir, are a poet. If you wanted to compose a gift of some verse, commemorating her brother the King, she might find it some small comfort in her grief."

Algarotti wasn't any happier than Fredersdorf at the thought of writing to the King's favorite sister, though he knew it was what the King would want and he would do it. But he didn't mean to begin the composition any sooner than it was required. He turned back to his astronomy.

"If you wish to retire for the night," Fredersdorf offered, picking up his flute again, "I'll send for you the moment there's any change."

It was a kind offer, by a man who'd never felt threatened by the charisma, the education, or the title of the other royal favorite, but Algarotti shook his head. He needed to be here, in case his friend only came to his senses long enough to hear one last message. Algarotti had finally figured out what that sardonic stress on _Count_ yesterday had been about. It went along with a letter earlier this year that suggested Algarotti might show a little gratitude and return from his native land to one that appreciated him properly.

_I didn't come back because you ennobled me the moment you became king, you lovable royal goose_, Algarotti needed to scold him. _I came back because you're one of a kind. Come back to me._

* * *

"I don't believe in an afterlife anyway. You know that."

"At least it's not angels and clouds," Katte laughed. "I thought you'd prefer Cerberus and the Styx."

The Styx. Of course. Not the Oder. Friedrich should have realized, but his rational faculties always failed him in his dreams. It was the Styx that flowed through Sanssouci.

"I knew it. I knew you were no true believer." Friedrich was angry. "They made you pretend to be one before they executed you, but they couldn't make you mean it." The chaplain appointed by King Friedrich Wilhelm had applauded Friedrich for following his friend's example in embracing religious orthodoxy, and the Katte family had been duly comforted, but Friedrich had never believed it for a minute. The lip service they were both forced to pay had only hardened his resolution to be his own man when he became king.

"I'm _your_ dream," Katte pointed out. "I am as you remember me. How committed will your successor be to your policy of religious tolerance?"

"You're my conscience," Friedrich realized. "I still have work to do. I have to go back."

The thought of it was exhausting. He couldn't rest a moment without feeling the unspoken reproach of all he had left undone, and there was no one else he could trust to see it done. If it were only up to him, he wanted to hear what Katte had come up with for 'Diffugere nives.' He knew if he didn't go to Katte now, he'd never hear it, because this wasn't real.

But Katte was right. Someday, Charon would ferry him in his turn across that river, but until the moment couldn't be put off any longer, Friedrich would fight it with every breath he had. He owed it to himself, to his country, and to the Antinous who had died so he could live.

And there was one more consideration.

_I am as you remember me._

"'Pulvis et umbra es.'" Friedrich was facing Katte, explaining and apologizing, even as he turned away, back to Sanssouci. _You are dust and shadow._ "Someone has to stay and remember."

**Author's Note:**

> _Historical notes_
> 
> 1) In 1747, these three things happened:
> 
> \- Friedrich acquired the statue called _Antinous_.  
\- Algarotti returned from Italy to Prussia to be Friedrich's chamberlain and art/architecture advisor.  
\- Friedrich had what his contemporaries thought was a stroke/apoplexy, but might actually have been an acute neuritis episode.
> 
> Within 1747, I've fudged the exact chronology for the sake of the story.
> 
> 2) Re the _Antinous_ statue: it really is too old to be a depiction of Antinous (it's called "Praying Boy" in the museum where it now stands), Friedrich really ought to have known that but continued to use the name Antinous anyway, he really did set it up by his grave and in the sight of his library, and scholars really do speculate, given the location, that Friedrich set it up in silent homage to Katte's sacrifice. In fact, some speculate that Katte may be part of the reason Friedrich persisted in calling it Antinous in the face of all the evidence. (That, and being pedantic about dating was less of a thing in the 18th century.)
> 
> 3) Re the neuritis: Friedrich wrote afterward that he was a short distance from the Styx and heard Cerberus howl. He was probably speaking metaphorically, but I couldn't resist making it a near death experience. I've completely and shamelessly fabricated all the details about the course of his illness (you can read it as some other illness if you prefer--he had plenty), but I did look up treatments for apoplexy in the 18th century.
> 
> Oh, and he really did start saying in his early thirties that he didn't expect to live another dozen years. He lived another forty, in increasingly poor health but driving himself (and everyone else) relentlessly until the very end.
> 
> 4) "My swan": Algarotti was nicknamed "the swan of Padua."
> 
> _Literary notes_
> 
> 1) "It took Augustus to make it a city of marble." An exaggeration, of course, but Augustus is supposed to have said that he found Rome a city of brick (Suetonius) or mud/clay (Dio Cassius) and left it a city of marble.
> 
> 2) "Easy is the descent to the Underworld" is a loose translation of "facilis descensus Averno" from the Aeneid. Avernus is the entrance to the Underworld. In other words, death is a one-way trip.
> 
> 3) "Nec Lethaea valet Theseus abrumpere caro vincula Pirithoo" and "pulvis et umbra sumus" are from Horace, Ode 4.7, sometimes called "Diffugere nives" after the opening words. "Pulvis et umbra es" just changes the original line from "we are dust and shadow" to "you are dust and shadow." Horace was one of Friedrich's all-time favorite authors.
> 
> Theseus and Pirithous invaded the Underworld together on a quest to kidnap Persephone. They were caught and bound in chains. Theseus was later freed, because he was the son of Poseidon, but his mortal friend/lover Pirithous was trapped forever.
> 
> If you read Ode 4.7, about the inevitability and irrevocability of death, with Katte in mind, it'll break your heart.


End file.
